


Ghosts

by Thnks_fr_th_feels



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Foreplay, Grinding, Hand Jobs, I haven't played the game in forever oops, Murder, Raul is possibly a little ooc, Regret, Revenge, Sex, Smut, Trauma, Vaginal Fingering, identity crisis, trauma flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thnks_fr_th_feels/pseuds/Thnks_fr_th_feels
Summary: The Courier survived a bullet to the head, arose from her own shallow grave, dedicated her life thereon to tracking down the man who killed her and returning the favour. Months later, Courier Six, or Carmen, tries to enjoy a rare night off from her duties across the Mojave, drinking the night away at the Tops Casino with her very handsome ghoul friend, Raul Tejada. The night inevitably takes a turn for the worse, however, when through her drunken haze Carmen begins to recall exactly what once happened here, what she did and who she did it with, what she’s been paying for ever since.Aka Fear and Loathing in New Vegas
Relationships: Benny (Fallout)/Female Courier, Cass/Boone if you squint, Female Courier/Raul Tejada
Kudos: 4





	1. The Casino

Carmen didn’t much like the Tops Casino.

Not for any fault of its own, not really. The place was decent enough, decently staffed, decently decorated. The wine was decent, the food was decent, as was the entertainment. She’d been before, just once, but it had been more than enough for her then. The events that had transpired here, the things she’d done, the man she’d done them with, the memories that no matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t shake, that’s what stopped this place from ever earning her favour.

It had been several months by now, since she’d first woken up in Doc Mitchell’s home. She'd had no memory of who she was, where she was even. But she’d had a purpose, before, that at least she’d remembered. She’d been a courier, one of six and she’d been delivering something, something of utmost importance. Beyond that, she had only her name, the clothes on her back, and the memory of the man who killed her. And all she knew then was to find that man and pay him his Devil’s due. She was a courier, after all, and this time she’d be sure to deliver.

And she had. She’d found Benny, the son of a bitch who’d shot her in the head, tracked him down to his very building. This was where she’d killed him, and then retrieved what he’d stolen from her, but not before he stole something else from her, something she would never get back. She didn’t like to think about that.

But that was why she didn’t like this place, why she hadn’t come back in so long. She’d sworn then the first time would be the last. She’d sworn she would never return.

But Raul had never been. This wasn’t his first time on the Strip, but it was the first where the two of them had a little extra time to spare, and he’d been rather excited to go in. She didn’t feel right letting him go alone – most folks around the Strip didn’t take too kindly to ghouls. And she couldn’t refuse without explaining why, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to that just yet. Maybe after they got to know each other a little better. Besides, she figured, enough liquor and she’d forget where she was soon enough.

Which she certainly did, a few glasses of whiskey and some shots of tequila later. Sure, it was the same swill they served at any bar out in the Mojave, but it was at least nice to just sit and drink out of a clean glass, without having to worry about fishing dead flies out of her drink, or the place getting ambushed by raiders, or some buckshot sticking his gun to the back of her head and demanding she turn over all her caps, something that happened far too often out there beyond the Strip. But she couldn’t always blame those who did. The Mojave Desert was a hostile place in more ways than one, and most folks were just looking for any means to survive. And as many times as she’d faced down the barrel of a gun, other times she’d been the one behind the trigger.

Those raiders knew where they could stick it, though.

Still, it was nice to just sit and drink without all that in mind. And it was nice to be here, with him. Raul. Raul Tejada.

It had been a while since they’d first met, since she’d rescued him from captivity. He’d been holed up in a radio station up on Black Mountain, held prisoner by the Super Mutants and Nightkin infesting the place. It had been a nightmare having to plough her way through the lot of them, and even though she’d had help, Cass and Ed-E and their new Mutant friend Neil by her side, she’d come close to death more than once on her way to the top. Though she supposed that was nothing new. She’d cheated Death countless times by now.

After she’d rescued him, Raul had offered to tag along with her. He was a fair shot if they ever ran into trouble, and he was a fair repairman, if the need ever arose. And if it didn’t, well then, if nothing else he was fair enough company. He’d sounded a little sheepish when he’d said that, and she’d guessed why. He’d been up for here for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to really interact with other people. But even if he’d been a terrible shot and piss-poor repairman, she wouldn’t have felt right leaving him on his own. She liked him, she’d realized then, even though they’d just met. Besides, she’d been lonely too.

They’d been travelling together on and off since then, some months by now. Sure, she supposed it hadn’t been very long, but they’d already faced many dangers together, fought by each other’s side more than once. They had quite a few things in common, too. They were both Spanish, for one, though of course Carmen didn’t know if she was Mexican like him or if she’d come from somewhere else. They both struggled with identity, their pasts, their presents. They’d both done things they regret. It was enough for her to really like him, trust him even, and it was a relief to be able to trust someone else, anyone else, in this world of seemingly unending chaos and violence and hostility, when most days she didn’t know if she could trust herself.

The two of them quickly slipped into easy chatter and banter, sitting at the bar. It was pretty effortless once she’d gotten enough alcohol into her. Though Raul never ran short of complaints and sarcastic remarks, should the need arise, they didn’t really talk much out on the road. They were usually too busy to chat, attending to the needy or running errands or, more often than not, having to defend themselves from raiders and fiends and wasteland creatures alike. But Carmen wasn’t very good at small talk. Even in the rare moments of calm, when they found themselves simply walking the long stretches of road, her mind was often busy with other things, memories, wishes, fears, regrets. There were things she wished more than anything she could remember, and things she would sell her soul to forget. They were never things she could easily say aloud.

Even then, Raul usually filled in the silence with his mindless chatter; thoughtful musings, thinking out loud, his many stories, comments on the weather and the landscape. He never seemed bothered that she rarely responded, though he’d thrown a jibe or two her way for it. And of course there were his unending complaints whenever they ran into trouble, or whenever she veered off the trail to pick through a discarded campsite, or whenever they found themselves walking for hours under the scorching hot sun. She could continue, but honestly the list of things he complained about was almost as long as his list of complaints.

Nevertheless, she knew he enjoyed travelling with her, never hesitant to join her should she request it. She knew he loved being out on the road, loved the sense of adventure, of doing good for those who otherwise couldn’t help themselves. And he liked being with her. He’d spent years being held prisoner but the Mutants and the Nightkin. She was a more than welcome change from his captors.

She liked him too, liked his sarcastic remarks and quick wit and funny little moustache. She liked the stories he told, when he elected to, over the campfire or out on the road when they weren’t shooting at anything, of his life and his captivity and the old world.

He’d lived before the war, seen it firsthand, and though he wasn’t apt to tell her much of that, nor was she apt to ask, he’d lived through a good deal else in his long life. He’d travelled to many places, seen many things. He’d seen technology come and go, watched entire species go extinct, seen new creatures pop up in their stead. He’d known a lot of people, watched them die. He often told her stories from before the war, stories of his family, of his day-to-day life on the family ranch, what the world had been like back then. She was most intrigued by the food. There’d been a lot more food back then, so much so that most people had things in the fridge and the cupboards they might never even use. And the variety! They had all sorts of produce, all sorts of things in boxes. Rice, and strawberries, and lettuce, and porridge, and countless other things, all in quantities enough to feed multiple people, all untainted by radiation or the blood of whoever you had to shoot to snatch it off. Raul had tried his best to describe all these things to her, but even then, she just couldn’t imagine it for herself.

She had to say, out of all the friends she’d met so far, even though she’d only known him for a few weeks, she decided she liked him the best.

Boone, well, she had mixed feelings about Boone, honestly. There wasn’t much there to think about to begin with. He was so closed off most of the time, which she supposed she couldn’t blame him for, not when she acted the same around Raul. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d said more than two words to her. She was sure the most he’d ever talked to her was back when they’d first met, and that had only been to ask for her help with tracking down his missing wife.

He was nice enough, she supposed, and loyal, and he followed orders to a t, but that was just it. Out on the road, though he was more experienced than her, more commandeering, more proficient with his weapon, he still looked to her as a leader. And she didn’t want to be a leader, didn’t want to be anyone’s boss, not when she’d seen firsthand what leaders like Caesar did to the people of the Mojave, not when she’d found on old terminals the horror stories of what those who oversaw the Vaults did to their very own people.

As for Cass, well, what else could she say? Cass was great. A great fighter, a great friend, a great drinking buddy. She was smart, and tough, and awesome, and she was easy company. As long as you weren’t pointing a gun in her face or directly trying to steal from her, you were more than fine in Cass’s book, which were fine standards to live by. It worked out well for the two of them, and Carmen enjoyed her company, but honestly, Cass reminded her too much of herself to stand being around her for very long. Carmen didn’t remember much at all of her life before she’d been shot in the head, but the months since then had been rough, to put it lightly. Cass had had a rough time of it too, recent hard luck destroying Cassidy Caravans, her family business, and with it the only memory of her father she had left, beyond the necklace she wore around her neck.

She had a lot of pent-up anger, and like Carmen she had more than her fair share of sorrows and regrets. She had her own fire, her own ghosts. But Carmen could barely stand to face her own ghosts most days, or most nights, when they crept up on her when she tried to sleep. She’d faced many a sleepless night out in the Mojave, eyes burning from exhaustion, body cramped from lying still for hours on end, begging her mind to shut down finally, just for a little while. But when she did sleep she dreamed, forgotten memories she couldn’t cling onto no matter how hard she tried, waking to the scrape of a shovel somewhere above her, dirt surrounding her on all sides, the things she'd once done in a pink silk slip. Come mornig she would wake with her hand on her gun, or on the knife she kept beneath her pillow, in the places she slept with one.

She guessed what bothered her most about Cass was how upfront she was. From the very beginning she hadn’t hesitated to lay all her cards down on the table, let Carmen know exactly who she was dealing with from the get go. And Carmen had appreciated that, but it had put her in a position where she couldn’t do the same, even if she’d wanted to. She’d told Cass about her circumstances, getting shot in the head, losing her memory, losing who she was, and Cass had understood wholeheartedly, but Carmen still wished she could offer her more than that. She hoped Cass didn’t think it was all bullshit, or that Carmen was trying to hide anything from her.

But Raul, Raul wasn’t like that. He’d been upfront with her too, sure, never shied from saying how he felt in any given situation, which could get frustrating really quickly, though all his sarcastic remarks never failed to make her laugh. Beyond that, though, he’d only ever really shared what he felt was necessary. She knew his name, his circumstances, what he could bring to the table when the two of them travelled together, beyond that she didn’t really need much more. She knew he’d lived a long time, that there was so much about him she didn’t know, so much she might never know, but she’d never felt like he was trying to deceive her. If anything it was a comfort. It meant that he’d never put her in a position where she was at a disadvantage to him, never gave her what she couldn’t offer in return. He had his own secrets, and she supposed so did she, known and unknown.

And he was kind to her, from the beginning he’d been so sweet to her, honestly seemed to care about her, never once expecting anything in return. Most folks out here rarely had much kindness to spare without some underlying motive. Cass and Boone, they’d wanted things from her too, back when she’d first met them. She wouldn’t judge them for that, never. For most folks, kindness was a luxury few could afford. People were just doing all they could to survive. But it made it hard to really connect with people when you couldn’t be sure exactly what they wanted from you, when you didn’t know who was smiling at you out of honest intentions, and who was just biding their time until they could stick a knife in your back.

But Raul wasn’t like that. Honestly, Raul wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever met. In this world she’d woken up in, this world of seemingly unending chaos and violence and hostility, where most folks were just doing whatever it took to survive, Raul was something else entirely. He was gentle, thoughtful, peaceful. He didn’t like senseless violence, tried to avoid it wherever possible. He’d lived before the war, knew firsthand what that kind of behaviour led to.

It fascinated her to meet someone like that. He’d lived so long, seen so much, he must’ve endured so much pain, watching the world burn to a crisp, outliving everyone he’d ever known. Most folks out here were bitter, hardened by the lives they’d led, every day a struggle, never knowing which day might be their last. Raul had every reason to be just like that, as cold and bitter and cruel as any other poor bastard out here in the wastes. But he was still kind. He could still laugh. And he could make her laugh.

And he was handsome, too, very handsome, which was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, back when they’d first met.

The first was his voice. When she’d found him, he’d been holed up in some tool shed, hidden behind shelves of parts and equipment and all sorts of junk. She’d heard him before she even saw him. He’d called out to her, made some sarcastic remark about how many toasters she had for him today – obviously he’d been expecting someone else. His voice was coarse and low, and it had a playful edge to it. Before she even saw him, she knew she would like him.

She was more than a little surprised when they finally came to face. She’d had plenty of run-ins with feral ghouls out in the Mojave, but she’d never met a regular ghoul before, not then. He was huddled on the floor next to some kind of machine, and once she got over her initial shock she noticed the handcuffs around his wrists, chaining him to the thing. He’d had congealed red marks on his wrists from where the cuffs had cut into them, giving her an idea of how long he’d been kept in there, dark circles around his dull, fatigued eyes.

When she got him back to Novac, the first thing she’d done was run an alcohol-soaked cloth over his wounds. After he’d had something to eat, they’d drunk the rest of the bottle together, passing it back and forth on the bed. He’d told her the story of how he’d been imprisoned on that mountain in the first place. Years earlier, he’d been living in a run-down old shack some distance away, alone, not much to do but listen to the radio. One day, while he’d been tuned in to Black Mountain’s radio station, the signal had cut out. He was a mechanic then, among other things, had been for some time, and he’d decided to make his up way there, see if he could help them out. 

He’d helped them out all right, and in return they’d made him their prisoner, locked him up in that fucking shed for years, no food but the occasional slab of raw molerat, no company but the Mutants’ crazy leader Tabitha and her robot pet, whenever the two of them popped in to throw him a pile of old toasters to fix. He’d still had no idea what they were doing with all those toasters, had said it wasn’t like they had any bread. When Carmen had asked him then what bread was, he’d only laughed and said, “Exactly my point, niña.” She’d been too angry at his story to see what was so fucking funny.

And then he’d slept. She’d let him take the bed. He’d looked he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep as long as he’d been imprisoned, which was far longer than she’d initially thought. She’d curled up with a blanket and pillow in an armchair next to the window, watched him for a while before nodding off herself. She couldn’t remember now what Cass and Ed-E had gotten up to during all that. She’d been so focused on taking care of Raul. She knew they’d followed her back to Novac, possibly Cass had spent the night with Boone. The two of them seemed close. Boone had spoken to her once.

Carmen laughed aloud, and then frowned. No, she shouldn’t make fun of Boone. He’d been going through a lot the past few months, the same as her. She wouldn’t like it if he made fun of her now, would she? Though she couldn’t imagine him laughing at all, let alone at anybody else. God, did she even know Boone’s first name? Had he ever told her? She couldn’t remember, the wine was getting to her head. Just like she couldn’t remember anything else.

“Hey, boss,” Raul spoke then. His hand was on her arm. God, his hands. “You feeling okay?”

Did she look upset? She smiled at him, touched his hand. His eyes were gentle, his hands were warm like his smile. He didn’t expect her to answer, just wanted to let her know he was looking out for her, like he’d been since they’d first started traveling together. She hoped then, whoever she’d been, whoever she was now, that she’d done enough to deserve him as a friend. 

God, she’d give anything to remember who she was.

She finished her drink. Enough. Enough of that. She’d come here to relax, to spend time with Raul, to enjoy her few hours of relief from her duties around the Mojave, and so she would. She’d gotten lost in thought too easily. She just needed to take her mind off of things.

She poured out another drink of whiskey, finishing the bottle, waved to the bartender to fetch them another. She turned back to Raul, looked him up and down.

He was clad in his vaquero garb, though considerably dressed down, holsters and chaps removed, wide sombrero slung over the back of his barstool. He’d had to leave all his weapons at the door when they’d first arrived, stalling them for an absurdly long amount of time as he pulled a seemingly unending supply of knives and guns and pistols and, inexplicably, two machetes, from his jacket and jeans and boots and the Devil knows here else. The machetes must’ve been strapped to his back, beneath his jacket. She couldn’t remember ever seeing them before.

She hadn’t been subjected to the same treatment, having cleverly hidden one of her smaller pistols and a selection of knives beneath her dress skirt, strapped to her thigh. Raul, despite the small arsenal taken off of him, had apparently had the same idea; when they’d finally been given the go ahead to move on and settle down at the bar, he’d turned to her and given her a cheeky wink, as he lifted his leg just enough to let her catch a glimpse of yet another blasted knife still hidden in his boot! And later, when he reached across the bar to snatch up a shot of tequila, she’d spotted one more poking out of his jacket sleeve! She’d nearly spit out her drink.

Over the next hour, as the night grew warm and the stack of empty glasses before them grew ever higher, he ended up shucking his jacket and scarf, joining them with his hat, slung over the back of his chair. The knife must’ve been tucked into a holster inside the jacket, for it was nowhere to be seen on his shirt sleeve. She wondered how many more he still had hidden away in there.

Another few shots of tequila, and he was rolling up his sleeves, loosening the top few buttons of his shirt. He looked good like this, she thought, relaxed, clad in the simple garb, glass held loosely in his hand. She wondered if this was how he must’ve been before the war, before everything changed, if he was more or less guarded now than he was back then.

He’d told her once, shortly after they’d first met, that he was more or less an open book. Sure, he’d said, the book was written in Spanish and some of the pages were falling out, but still, an open book. But she found herself thinking then that she really didn’t know much about him, not really. He’d told her he used to go by Old Miguel, also shortly after they’d met. For all she knew, Raul wasn’t even his real name.

Not that she thought any less of him for it. For all she knew, Carmen wasn’t even her own real name. When she’d first woken up, when Doc Mitchell had asked for her name, it had come to her in a flash, but how could she know she hadn’t just seen it on a sign or clothing label, or heard someone else get called by it, and the memory had just been one of the few that lingered after she was shot in the head? It was almost a comfort, then, to know that Raul had once lived by other names, that one could form their own name, their own identity, that they didn’t have to shaped by their past. But even then, at least Raul remembered his past. At least he knew who he used to be.

In the weeks that followed she’d come to know a little more about him – he’d lived before and through the Great War, something she’d already guessed when she’d first seen him – he was a ghoul, after all. He’d had a big family, lived on a ranch out in Mexico. After the war, he and his little sister had lived on their own for a while; he’d first donned the vaquero garb because it made her so happy, the two of them having come across it while scavenging an abandoned costume shop for supplies. Soon enough the clothes just felt like home to him, because they reminded him of her, and he kept wearing them long after she died.

Beyond that, she didn’t know much else about him. But she supposed again that they hadn’t been travelling together very long, or even very frequently. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t hold secrets of her own. She knew he’d lived a long time, and so he must have a lot to tell. Perhaps one day he’d decide to share it with her.

She didn’t know what happened to his family, supposed they must’ve died during the war, or that he’d simply outlived them. And he must’ve outlived his sister, since he’d never made mention of her becoming a ghoul or anything of the sort. She wouldn’t ask, though. It had been a long time since the war, and it must’ve been a long time since his family died, but she was sure it must still hurt to think about.

She wondered often if she’d had a family, before she’d been shot in the head. Though no one she’d ever met out in the Mojave seemed to recognize her, she knew they must be out there somewhere, whether they were dead and buried or alive and missing her. But she didn’t know who she’d been before. How could she know she hadn’t been vicious, sadistic, cruel? What if she’d been a monster? What if she’d been the kind of person a family would sooner forget than see her again, that her being shot in the head and losing her memory was in fact a blessing for them, an answer to their prayers, if they indeed prayed? What if they’d never existed to begin with, and she was truly all alone?

She sipped her drink. She didn’t like to think about that much, of course. She had no way of knowing if it was true, and at the very least she knew she wasn’t completely alone. She’d made friends here, out in the Mojave, on the Strip, out in Freeside. She had Raul, and Cass, and Boone, though she supposed travelling with Boone was more like travelling with an extra arm to hold a gun.

She laughed again, took another drink. Peering down the rim of her glass, her gaze lowered to Raul’s hands. He had one hand settled on the bartop, fingers tapping along in time with the music. She couldn’t remember what the song was called, too buzzed by now to recognize more than the tune, but it was one she heard all the time on the radio. The Tops, like most of the other establishments on the Strip, mostly stuck to playing the radio out on the casino floor, though every now and then they played recordings from the performances in the Aces Theatre. Carmen still hadn’t been. Perhaps she should.

His other hand he had loosely grasped around his bottle of whiskey. She found herself staring intently whenever he raised it to his lips, his lips when they closed around the rim of the bottle, the tilt of his head when he took a swig, the movement of his neck when he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. She found herself wondering about that. Why was it called an Adam’s apple? Who had come up with that? And who was Adam, anyway? Some pre-war fellow? She supposed he must’ve had a rather impressive neck. Raul had come from before the war, she remembered. Perhaps he might know, if, like so much else, the information had been lost when the bombs fell. She almost opened her mouth to ask, but then he took another swig from his bottle, and she was too distracted by his hands and his lips to care for much else.

God, his hands would be the death of her.

That was the second thing she’d noticed after they’d met, the next morning over breakfast. She’d let him sleep in as long as he needed, set about making breakfast ready for when he woke up. She hadn’t been as busy then as she was now, could afford to spend the time making an effort on things like that. These days she was lucky if she managed to snatch a few bites of apple before heading back out on the road.

He’d looked much better then, once he’d had a decent night’s sleep and gotten some food into him, enough for to realize just how handsome he was. She’d found herself gazing after him as he busied himself around the hotel room, insisting on setting the table and making the bed, took in his shoulders, his waist, his arms, his hands. His hands most of all.

He had good, strong hands. Experienced hands, hardened by the life he’d led. Long, broad fingers, calloused palms, strong nails, protruding veins and knuckles. She remembered the first time she’d held them, as she led him back down Black Mountain. He’d been too weak to walk for very long, but he had, not stopping until they reached Novac, though she’d practically been carrying him on her shoulders by then. The second time was in her hotel room, while she patched up the wounds on his wrists. He’d been very pale, and sweaty, and his hands shook the whole while, and they shook when he ate, and whenever he took the bottle from her later. He’d been through Hell up there.

But he was here with her now, she reminded herself, before she started to get angry all over again. Despite all he’d been through, he would hear nothing of revenge, nothing of going back up there and finishing what they’d started. He’d just wanted to move on with his life, leave the past behind him. And while she couldn’t understand it, she could respect it. She’d taken care of him then, and he’d been taking care of her ever since. And he was here with her now. Now, if nothing else, they had each other.

She put her hand over his, where it was resting on the bar top. He paused, bottle halfway to his lips, glanced over at her. His eyes.

More than anything, she’d noticed his eyes.

When she first saw him, she’d thought they were grey, dulled and fatigued by his imprisonment and the lack of any sleep or a proper meal. But the next day, after he’d gotten some food and rest, there’d been a new life in them, a light that hadn’t been there before, and she’d seen they were blue. As blue as the sky, unclouded by dust or sand or radiation, as rare as such a sight was out here. Even the water, as blue as she’d heard it used to be, now ran grey or brown or green, tainted by pollution and radiation. But all she had to do was look into Raul’s eyes to see the sky. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

Especially his hands. God, she couldn’t get enough of his hands. She’d fantasized about them many times, about him. On the sleepless nights out in the Mojave, or holed up in her hotel room in Novac, or tucked into her bed at the Lucky 38, her thoughts often drifted to those hands. And on those particular nights, of which there were many, if she were sleeping alone, she’d let her hands drift to her breasts, over her skin, between her legs, as did her mind drift to thoughts of him. She would tug on her hair, soft and then hard, squeeze her breasts, pinch her nipples, all as she slipped her fingers in and out of herself, thinking of nothing else but his hands. How must they feel inside of her? What would they taste like, if she were to take them into her mouth? How would they feel against her skin? And what must his skin feel like, pressed against hers? She did her best to imagine it was Raul doing those things to her, his hands inside of her, his lips against her skin. But she knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she felt him for real.

God, she had to stop thinking about him like this. Raul was her friend. Most days he acted like her Abuelo. He was always looking out for her, always complaining about his knees. She laughed aloud. God, he meant so much to her. She didn’t want to wreck what they had. But she couldn’t help it. He just drove her insane.

Their hands were still touching. He’d taken her hand in his by now, his thumb running over the gap between her thumb and forefinger. His skin was rough, his hand warm, the gesture soothing, all just like the rest of him. He turned to look at her then, having noticed she’d grown quiet. She was already staring back, eyes bright from the liquor, dark with desire, drink forgotten in her hand, eyeing him with the same intensity a wild animal watches its prey. For a moment, he was a little taken aback, but then he relaxed and flashed his usual cheeky grin at her, before saying, “Heh, you see something you like, boss?”

Yes. Everything. He laughed a little, and then he smiled at her, that beautiful smile, those beautiful eyes, this beautiful man. And then she leaned forward in her seat; her hand on his leg, his hand still holding hers, she pressed her lips to his.

His lips were rough and warm, the inside of his mouth was so hot. He tasted like liquor. His moustache tickled. His eyes were wide open, shock, surprise, disbelief. All she could see was blue. Endless clouded blue. This close, she could see the rings of his irises, his pupils, as pale as they were. His hand, caught in mid-air, came to rest a little unsteadily on her arm, like he wasn’t sure how exactly to touch her. 

She pulled away, just enough to break the kiss. There was a soft, wet sound when their lips pulled apart. They were both panting a little. His eyes were wide, unfocused. He looked shocked, stunned, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. She could barely believe it herself.

“Raul?” He wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t looking at anything really. His hand still rested limply on her arm. She hoped what she’d just done was okay.

“Raul,” she said again. “Was that alright?” She leaned back in, put her hand on his cheek. His skin was warm and waxy beneath her hand. Immediately he put his hand over hers, and then she couldn’t wait for an answer, couldn’t let him answer in case the answer was no. She needed him, all of him.

She kissed him again. The second time was even better than the first.

He kissed her back this time, leaning forward in his seat to better press his lips to hers. He’d done this before. How long ago had he last been kissed? He put one of his hands on her leg, high enough on her thigh to send a shiver running through her. The other hand he tucked beneath her chin, angling her head just so to meet his lips. Her tongue was touching his. She could taste his breath, whiskey and tequila. All the times she’d thought about it, she’d never imagined it would happen like this, but it was still everything she’d imagined and more.

She held his head in both hands, rough, mottled skin beneath her fingers. His tongue was hot in her mouth. His warm breaths tumbled past her lips. His skin almost burned to the touch. Everything about him was so hot, hot enough to send beads of sweat running down her cheek. Or maybe that was the alcohol. Or the central heating. She wasn’t sure which, everything was a haze. She felt lighter than air. This was all she’d wanted for so long, and the way things were happening now he’d clearly felt the same. How long? How long could they have been doing this, how much time had they wasted? She swore then she’d never waste a second more.

The next thing she knew, she’d hopped down from the bar stool, taken him by the hand, led him away from the bar. People were staring at them, she realized, other patrons peering scandalised and appalled at them over their glasses, waiters pausing to gawk in the middle of pouring out drinks. The bartender had stopped stacking up the mess up empty glasses they’d left just to stare. She paid them all no mind, let them stare, let them talk, let them think whatever the hell, obviously they had nothing better to do. She knew somewhere they could continue this with a little more privacy.

And then they were in the elevator. Before the doors had even closed she was jumping into his arms, sealing her lips back over his. He fell back a bit, his back hit the closed doors with a thud that made her giggle. His hands were tight around her waist. Her arms were slung around his neck, pressing her body to his, her breasts against his chest, her hips against his, kissing him like she was trying to deprive him of air. They didn’t have to worry about potential onlookers from this point on. The elevator only led to one room, her room, she barely remembered through the alcoholic haze. How did she get it again? Ah, what did it matter? What mattered only was that from here on they would be completely alone.

The elevator dinged and they practically fell back into the room once the doors opened. He stumbled back under the weight of her kiss, tripping over his own legs until his lower back hit the pool table, dropped his hat and scarf and jacket somewhere along the way. In a moment of clarity she thought to unclip the holsters from her thighs, barely registered them hitting the floor before she was throwing her arms back around him. Her lips never left his the whole while, her arms tightening around his neck even as she tripped over her own feet, losing her shoes in the process. She wasn’t letting go of him that easily. Here, pressed against him like this, she could feel him against her leg. He was already half hard. She could feel his warmth through his jeans, through the fabric of her skirt.

There they stopped, took a moment to breathe. Her hands loosened around his neck, came to rest on his upper arms. He was panting. They both were. It flashed into his mind then that perhaps they might be going too fast. They’d never done anything like this before. Maybe they should slow down a little. He opened his mouth to say this, but then she kissed him again and the words were lost in his throat. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, trailed hot wet kisses down his throat. He smelled like alcohol. He tasted like dust and sweat and something else, a bitter undertaste, lingering but not unpleasant. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, trapping him there between it and her. His hands rested loosely on her waist. His head was tilted back, letting her have her way with him.

She let go of the table, almost falling against him. She kissed and ran her tongue down his neck, delighting in the little sounds that tumbled from his mouth. She put her hands on him, ran her hands up and down his body, felt the warmth of him, his hard muscles through his shirt. Everywhere she touched felt like fire. He was wearing too many clothes. So was she.

She yanked her dress down hard enough to break the straps, buttons flying every which way. She took his hands and pressed them to her newly exposed breasts.

“Touch me,” she growled. “You dirty old man.”

He groaned, both at the words and tone in her voice, and the feeling of her breasts beneath his palms. Her breasts were small and soft. She had dark little nipples. He held them gently in his ruined hands, began to massage them as best as he could remember how. He hadn’t done this in a very long time, worried that he was too unpracticed, that his skin might too rough, but given the sounds she was making, he seemed to be doing just fine.

She pulled him into another heated kiss, let him pleasure her while she made quick work of his clothes. As rough as she’d been with her dress, she was careful with undressing him, knowing how much the clothes meant to him. She carefully unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt, pulled down the zipper of his jeans. He pulled away from her enough to tug the shirt down his arms and drop it the floor, leaving him in just his undershirt, clinging to his skin with sweat, and then his hands were on her again.

His hands felt like heaven against her, hot and rough and yet gentle. He held her breasts like he’d been made for it. He cupped them expertly in his hands, massaging them gently, his thumbs applying pressure to the undersides. He stopped to give them a gentle squeeze, ran little circles around her nipples with his thumbs. Occasionally he flicked a nipple with his thumb, making her gasp into his mouth. She reached down between them, touched his cock over his jeans. He was so hard. He was so hot. He jumped a little, his hips bucking against hers. She broke the kiss to moan and in an instant his lips were on her neck, kissing, biting, sucking. How had they never done this before? How had she kept her hands off him for so long?

He ventured his lips further down, grown confident from her pleasured reactions to his touch. He kissed his way down between her breasts, kissed and ran his tongue around her nipples, felt her shiver against him, all as he continued to massage her breasts in his hands. She cupped the back of his neck in one hand, the other held his head in an iron grip, holding him in place. And the sounds she was making, he’d never imagined he would hear anything like that again, that he could make anyone feel that way again.

It hit him again that perhaps they were moving too quickly. Maybe they should slow down. Maybe they should stop. He didn’t want to stop, because right now she was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in so long, but he didn’t want to spoil their first night together. He cared about her too much to let her do something she might regret. Sure, she seemed just as eager as him, but how could he be sure it wasn’t the alcohol driving her movements, clouding her judgement? She’d never seen him before, not really, not like this. A few minutes on, once she’d sobered up a little, who’s to say she wouldn’t recoil in disgust once she sees what’s beneath his clothes? He wouldn’t blame her, never. She was so passionate, so beautiful, she deserved better than him, deserved better than some old ghost, but he didn’t want to think how that would make him feel. He tried to speak, tried to tell her these things, in between her kissing him like she needed him to breathe, but he was too drunk to properly get the words out, and she was too drunk to really listen.

At some point they backed away from the pool table. She could barely stand, clung onto Raul for support. She glanced around for the bedroom, her surroundings barely registering through the wine-induced haze. She hadn’t been in here in a while, forgotten just where it was. The Suite seemed set up in a way to deliberately confuse her, lounge room leading into kitchen into bathroom. They stumbled drunkenly about, half-carrying each other, giggling between kisses. She stopped on the way to back him against the bar, the wall, the door to the bedroom, couldn’t last more than a few seconds without him under her tongue.

And then they were in the bedroom. She’d never imagined she would end up in this room again, not after what happened here, especially not like this. Hadn’t she sworn she would never come back? And now here she was, with him. She pushed him into the armchair next to the door, barely let him get his bearings before she was dropping to her knees before him, pushing up his oil-stained undershirt to get at his skin. She lifted herself up on her knees, gripping his thighs to steady herself, attacking his skin with her lips and her teeth, kissing, biting, sucking, hungry for every bit of him she could reach. His skin was burning hot, tasted of sweat and salt and the faintest bit of whiskey from when he’d spilled his drink earlier that evening, and that small undertaste she’d noticed before, bitter but not unpleasant. And the texture of it, mottled and scarred all over, it felt so unique under her tongue, almost like the ribbed underside of a cave fungus, but beyond that she didn’t know how else to describe it.

She lifted her hand to grip his shoulder, better steady herself as she rose back up to meet his lips. She kissed him hungrily before pulling away too soon, wasted no time in marking her way down his neck, down to his chest. He relaxed back in his seat, hand resting on the back of her neck, letting her have her way with him. She ran her tongue down his abdomen, careful to avoid the open patches where the skin had rotted away completely, exposing the muscles beneath. She didn’t think they were particularly horrible – his skin was certainly in much better shape than Beatrix Russell’s, for instance, and Carmen had had no issue going down on her, but she felt it would be like licking an open wound.

Her knees were starting to get a little sore, as was her back, curled over him on the floor like this. There was a clean, freshly made bed not two feet away from them, but she’d burn in Hell before she climbed back into that bed again. That was where…

She turned her attentions back to his neck, nipped and licked and sucked at the ruined skin. She ran her hands up and down his torso, felt his warmth, his hard muscles beneath his skin.

She got up off the floor then, ignored the numbness in her knees as she climbed up into the chair on top of him. His hands rose up to touch her face, he kissed her as she settled herself in his lap. She could feel his cock through his jeans, hot and hard beneath her. She ground down onto it and he groaned. “Shame on you, querida,” he gasped. “Teasing this poor old man.” That made her laugh. She ground down onto him again and this time he lifted his hips to meet hers, making her gasp. It already felt so good, just like this. She could only imagine how it must feel inside of her.

She pulled him into another heated kiss, grinding down onto him. His hands were on her breasts again. The rough fabric of his jeans dragged up against her cunt with every thrust of her hips, making her moan and whimper past his lips. She was so wet. Her underwear was already soaked through, just from this. He swallowed all the little sounds she made, drank them down like whiskey. His hands played a little rougher with her breasts then before, kneading and squeezing, paying extra close attention to her nipples.

He kissed her, her lips, her cheek. “Querida,” he whispered. His lips brushed against her ear when he spoke, hot breath ghosting over her skin. She gave a little moan. “Should we go to the bed?”

Oh God no, she thought. “No, no,” she silenced him with another kiss. “This is good. I like this.” He tried to say more, but she hit down hard on his neck and he broke off with a groan, his hips bucking up against hers.

“Easy, veijo,” she smirked, mouthing over the spot where she’d just bit.

“You’re not making things easy, niña,” he grunted. She laughed, but the laughter was short lived, her mind now drifting to the bed behind her. Not the bed, she thought then. Anywhere but that bed. That was where… that was where…

That was where she’d killed Benny.

It was like she’d been punched in the throat. All of a sudden she felt completely sober, became all too aware of where exactly they were. The Presidential Suite. The Tops Casino. The bedroom. How could this be? How had she ended up here again? She knew, of course, but she couldn’t believe she’d let it happen, could’ve kicked herself, for her carelessness, her foolishness, her blind, stupid lust. She swore she’d never come back here, not after what she did. Not after who she did it with.

This was where she’d killed Benny, all right. But not before she’d slept with him.


	2. The Presidential Suite

Looking back now, all that she’d done since, all that she’d learned, she knew there must’ve been countless other ways she couldn’t gone about it. As little as there still was, she knew herself more now, trusted herself more. She hadn’t then.

She’d been all alone, vulnerable, defenceless. This was before she’d met Raul, before she’d started traveling with Cass or Boone. She hadn’t trusted them enough yet, hadn’t trusted anyone.

It had been the first time she’d stepped foot in any of the casinos on the strip – the moment she walked through the door the doorman had done away with the pistol on her hip, insisted upon patting her down for the rest of her weapons. She hadn’t thought to conceal it, hadn’t known it was something she should do. She hadn’t thought to hide any weapons in her boots or up her jacket sleeves. Nowadays she never went anywhere without at least one pistol and blade apiece strapped somewhere on her body, lest she run into a similar situation. She’d never let herself become that vulnerable again.

And she hadn’t been thinking straight, mind all fogged up by exhaustion and hunger and hatred and revenge. She’d been hunting him down for weeks, from the moment she’d first woken up in Doc Mitchell’s clinic. Her head had hurt where he’d shot her, her lungs had ached from choking on dirt, but she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t rest until she found him and paid him back for what he did to her. She hadn’t planned properly for what to do once she did meet him again. In her mind the plan was simple - find the bastard son of a bitch who killed her and shoot him in the head, but of course things hadn’t turned out that way. She’d found him alright, and in the moment she’d felt an immense sense of relief that the weeks of hunting him across the desert, forgoing food and sleep all to chase loose ends and false trails, were finally over. And she’d been more than a little smug at the look of absolute bewilderment on his stupid fucking face when he’d first caught sight of her. But the moment had been fleeting. She’d caught him by surprise, sure, but he still had the upper hand. She’d been left completely defenceless, not so much as a pocketknife on her person, surrounded by his bodyguards, all of them packing heavy submachine guns, enough to riddle her through with bullets should she even lift a finger the wrong way. One wrong move, and she’d be dead where she stood, this time for real.

The solution then, flirting with him, telling him she wanted to sleep with him, it had burst out of her mouth almost like vomit – she’d been as surprised as him when the words tumbled out of her mouth. But by then it was too late to take the words back, she'd had to keep it up, convince him she actually meant it. She kept flirting, feeling more and more ridiculous the more she spoke, cheeks burning, limbs trembling, barely able to meet his eyes. It worked, somehow. Though he’d seemed just as shocked to hear her proposition as he had when he’d first spotted her, nonetheless he rushed to agree once he believed she was serious, the son of a bitch.

She’d let him lead her to elevator, mind racing all the while. She had a new plan by then – once she got him alone, she’d find anything she could use as a weapon, hit him over the head, make a grab for his gun. She remembered where it was, remembered him pulling it from his stupid fucking jacket the night he shot her. Either it was in the jacket or in a holster strapped to his chest, if it was on him to begin with, that was. If it wasn’t, the better for her, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

Once they were in his quarters – “the Presidential suite, best room in the Tops, baby!” – he’d busied himself at the bar, back turned to her. While he mixed his drink, she’d looked around the room, eyes darting between potential weapons – a lamp, a pool cue, the many bottles of alcohol. But then, a crackling sound, and then one of his bodyguards had spoken through the intercom next to elevator, checking in to make sure his boss was alright. They'd been listening in. If she’d started a scuffle, even if she had the upper hand, Benny was still bigger than her, stronger than her. There was no telling how long a fight between them might’ve lasted, who even would win, and once his boys heard it through the intercom they would've rushed up to gun her down before she could blink.

She’d had to go through with it. There was no other way about it. 

So she had. She’d accepted the drink he’d offered her, and then she’d let him lead her into the bedroom. She’d undressed for him, put on the faded pink slip he’d laid out for her. He’d taken a seat in the armchair next to the bed, not the armchair Raul was in now, good God, lit a cigarette, invited her to sit down and let him have his way with her. She’d refused, insisted on using the bed. He’d stolen from her. He’d shot her in the head. Why the fuck would she do anything he asked? If she had to go through with it, she’d told herself she wouldn’t do it his way. She wouldn’t be his little doll.

For all his insufferable talk, his loathsome flirtations, she honestly hadn’t expected much from him. She’d expected him to be pathetic, the kind of man who liked to talk a big game but when it came down to it couldn’t deliver. But she should’ve known better by then. Nothing that night, not since she’d first walked through the front entrance to the Tops Casino, had gone the way she’d expected. And neither had that, what the two of them did together in this room. Not the first time, nor the second time, nor all the times after.

But she didn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not ever. Never again.

Raul’s voice broke through then, snapping her out of her thoughts. He was saying her name. He sounded concerned. His hands were on her hips, running gently up and down. Had she stopped? She’d stopped. She was lying still in his lap, had been staring off at a point past his shoulder for the Devil knows how long. He was looking up at her, brow furrowed in worry, asking her what was wrong.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.” Before he could say more she captured his lips in hers, silencing him. She kissed him, touched him with renewed intensity, hands everywhere on him, tongue delving far enough past his lips to reach down his throat. She took his hands in hers, pressed one to her breasts, the other she guided down to her cunt, hiking up her skirt for better access. They both groaned when his fingers came into contact with her.

She ground down onto his hand, gasping as he pleasured her. He’d done this too. However long it had been since then, he’d certainly never lost the ability. He touched her over her underwear, and then underneath. The sensation of his fingers against her left her momentarily breathless. She’d never felt anything quite like this before.

They were both still almost fully clothed. She could remedy that. She yanked off his undershirt, ripped her dress even more trying it tug it over her head, dropped it carelessly to the floor. She kissed him again, holding him by the back of the neck. She ground down furiously onto him, drawing his fingers deeper inside of her, tried to make the pleasure fill her, banish all other thoughts from her mind, but despite her efforts her mind still wandered.

She was still here, in this wretched casino, in this wretched hotel room. She’d sworn to herself she would never come back, hadn’t she done that? And despite the fact that she was here with Raul, hot skin pressed to hers, lips on her throat, perfect fingers inside of her, doing things to her she’d only dreamed about, all she could think about was Benny, what he did to her, what she did to him, and in between, what the two of them did together.

Afterwards, once they were well and truly finished, Benny had settled back against his pillow and lit another cigarette. She’d settled down in the bed beside him, over the covers. He’d asked her to hold him.

He’d dozed off some time later. She’d reached over him to turn off the lamp, and then she’d waited. However long it had been later, minutes, hours, once she was sure he was well and truly asleep, she’d made her move. He’d left his jacket and gun on the floor, dropped carelessly beside him when he’d stripped down. She slipped carefully out of the bed then, inched across the floor to snatch it up, before creeping back over to his bedside. Gun in hand, she’d climbed soundlessly back onto the bed, moved to straddle him before checking it was loaded. He’d stirred a little at the noise, and again when she flicked off the safety. Before he could wake, she shot him in the head.

The first shot, his blood had sprayed over the cushions, the bedsheets, the gun in her hands. The second, his blood had stained the backboard, the wallpaper behind the bed. There honestly hadn’t been much of it, not really, but more than a little of it got on her, her hands, her chest, her face. She could still feel it, even months later, on her fingers, on her neck, dripping down her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. And she could still taste it, just barely.

She could still feel him.

Her skin still tingled wherever he’d managed to touch her, her hands which had touched him. She could still feel him inside of her.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d latched onto her mind like a parasite, memories of his lips and his eyes and his touch still fresh on her skin. She’d killed him, she’d shot him twice in the head, but he was still with her, even now. He was still in this room. She’d killed him, but he hadn’t left. She knew he was watching her. He was still with her, and she knew if she turned just so she’d see him there, resting lazily in the bed, legs crossed, hands resting on his stomach, not a care in the world. And when he turned to face her, the entire left side of his face would be a crater of blood.

She knew it. She couldn’t look. She turned to look and of course the bed was empty, but she knew he was there. She could feel him, could feel his eyes on her, as she felt his touch still lingering on her skin.

She had to stop. She couldn’t keep going like this. She couldn’t continue, plagued by fear and regret and the ghost in an empty bed. 

She had stopped, grown still in Raul’s lap. She was frozen, staring at the bed behind them, mind racing with fear and panic and anxiety. Raul was talking to her, hands touching her shoulders, her face, saying her name, over and over. She could barely hear him, mind muddled by wine and sex and the ghost in an empty bed. She could feel him beneath her, his warm skin pressed to hers, but it sounded like he was talking to her through water. She felt a hundred miles away, lost in space, caught in a specific moment in time. She had that cold feeling again, the feeling of his lips, his hands on her skin. It made her want to vomit. Raul, for all his heat, couldn’t warm her. She was cold inside and out.

“Carmen, Carmen,” his voice broke through, finally, bringing her back to herself. She whipped around with a small cry.

“Raul,” she said. Her voice was barely more than a whimper.

“Carmen, que esta mal? What’s wrong?” His voice was shot through with worry. “Niña, tell me what’s wrong, niña.” His hands were on her cheeks, trying to calm her, but nothing could calm her now. She felt like she was suffocating. It was so hot in here, so hot next to him, stifling, but she was still so cold. She could barely register his words, couldn’t focus on anything but the bed behind her, overwhelmed by her urge to look. She tried not to look, but she looked anyway, each time expecting to see him there. Each time the bed was empty.

She realized she was shaking, breaths coming in short, sharp pants. She gripped Raul’s shoulders, tried to steady herself, tried to breathe. She swallowed and bit her lip, head turning automatically to glance at the bed before she snapped it back around. 

“Carmen,” he said her name over and over. He massaged his hands up and down her arms, trying to soothe her. “What’s the matter?” He asked. “Are you alright?”

She swallowed again, took a moment to respond. She couldn’t breathe. She was breathing so hard. “No,” she finally managed to say. Her voice sounded hollow. She felt cold, so cold. “No. Let’s get out of here.”

She climbed off of his lap, dazed and humiliated. She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbed her hands up and down her arms, a futile effort to try and warm herself a little. She was shaking, her whole body was tingling. Raul stood also, reached out to touch her shoulder. She shrank away from him, eyes darting away, but not before she saw the look of hurt on his face. She crouched and snatched her dress up off the floor, turned fully away from him. But now she was facing the bed. She turned again, faced the wall, caught between the two.

Raul awkwardly redressed, put on his undershirt, zipped up his jeans. He looked at her for a moment where she stood, head bowed, arms curled in on herself, dress clutched to her chest. When she’d still been in his lap, she’d looked to be in a daze, eyes caught between staring straight ahead and darting all around, as if she expected something to dart out at her, as if there was some invisible enemy about her that he couldn’t see. Something must have happened here. He’d never seen her like this. He should say something to her. He wanted to, but he didn’t know what to say.

He left the room to go gather up the rest of his things, left her to redress alone.

Her dress was ruined, the skirt split up the side, straps broken and missing several buttons. She felt ridiculous standing there, for a moment she felt too afraid to leave the room and face him again. But she couldn’t stay here. She left the room on shaking limbs, unsteady steps like a frightened child. Raul was standing idly by the bar, waiting for her. His jacket was slung over one arm. Before she could say anything, he slipped it over her shoulders, zipped it up. the leather was soft, and warm, and smelled like him. She felt like she might cry.

She gathered up her shoes and holsters, left discarded on the floor, put them back on on autopilot. She let him head her to the elevator, his hand on the small of her back. They headed back down to the lobby, his arm wrapped around her, steadying her. She waited outside while he collected all his weapons at the front desk, arms drawn tightly around her. The night was warm, and so was his jacket, but still she felt chills up and down her spine. She felt too exposed, out in the open like this. She didn’t think she’d be able to relax until she was back in her bed in the Lucky 38.

Finally, Raul emerged from the building, and they headed over to the Lucky 38 together. He put his hand on the small of her back, but she pulled away enough to let his arm fall. She didn’t deserve such a tender gesture. She'd hurt him, she knew. She didn't deserve his care. He didn’t touch her again. He didn’t say a word.

When they returned to her suite in the Lucky 38, she turned to face him. “Goodnight, Raul,” she said quietly. She still couldn’t look at him. She handed him his jacket, and then she retreated to her room without another word.


	3. On The Road Again

The next day, they were back out on the road. Carmen had a number of errands to run across the Mojave, packages to deliver, people to see. She’d picked up courier work, in the months since she’d woken up, trying to get a semblance of her old life before she’d been shot in the head. A doctor in Freeside had recommended it, a handsome young man, blond, fit, though a little hostile. He’d said it might rekindle some old memories, if that’s what she was looking for. She’d said it was.

They walked most of the day, blazing hot sun on their backs, dust under their boots, an uncomfortable silence between the two of them. Even if she’d wanted to talk, she didn’t think she could. She was nursing a pretty killer hangover, had drunk herself silly in her room to avoid another sleepless night. She was paying for it now, her limbs trembling and weak, her head pounding with every heavy step, her mouth dry no matter how frequently she sipped from her lucky Vault 13 canteen.

Raul attempted to make some small talk throughout the day, discuss who they were meeting with next, suggest the best route to their next destination, but Carmen rarely answered with more than a nod or a shrug. The events of the previous night weighed over them like a heavy fog. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. She could barely look him in the eyes. She felt so ashamed.

Raul wasn’t sure how to feel about the previous night, really. He’d tried to speak to her at several points, in between the moments of passion, ask if she thought they should slow down, if this was what she really wanted, but he hadn’t been able to really get the words out. They’d both been drunk, not thinking clearly. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d stopped, never, he’d honestly expected her to.

When she did first grow still in his lap, however, he couldn’t help but feel a little blow to his pride, as little as there was left. For a moment he’d thought she was reconsidering, changing her mind about sleeping with him specifically, that she’d realized she really could do better than such an ugly old man, that her enthusiasm was all due to the whiskey she’d downed at the bar. But the moment was fleeting. She wouldn’t act like that if that was how she truly felt, even drunk. She wouldn’t toy with his feelings like that. He could tell something was troubling her. Something must have happened to her there, in that room, some old ghost still left behind.

Whatever it was, she hadn’t said a word of it thus far, had barely spoken to him since last night. She attended to her errands across the Mojave that day with that familiar fire, smiling, laughing, making chatter to all the familiar faces they came across, but he could see beneath it all that there were other things weighing down on her mind. On the road, she kept her mouth pressed shut, her eyes set dead ahead, watching the horizon. But not just that. She almost seemed to be looking beyond it. He’d seen that look before, when she became lost in thought, but he’d never guessed what she might be thinking about.

She felt humiliated. How could she come back from how she’d acted last night? She’d made a fool of herself. And not to mention how Raul must be feeling. She knew she must’ve hurt him. She would be hurt, if the opposite had been true. She hoped he didn’t think that any of it was his fault, because it wasn’t. He was perfect. She was entirely to blame.

She was at least glad they hadn’t gone through with it, not the whole way. When it did happen, if he decided to let her anywhere near him again, of course, she didn’t want it to be like that. She didn’t want him to be just another quick fuck. She cared about him too much.

She thought she’d be happy after killing Benny. She’d survived being shot, crawled from her own shallow grave, tracked down the man who killed her and shot him in the head. She’d spent every minute since she first woke up hunting him down. She’d scoured the empty desert for days on end, ate and slept only when she couldn’t put it off any longer. And for so long that was it. Nothing but the injustice that had been done to her, nothing but her lust for revenge, nothing but the memory of his smirking face, and the satisfaction to be wrought once she put a bullet in it. Once it was over, she thought she could move on with her life. She thought she’d find peace.

But how could she? She’d lost her memory after being shot in the head, and all she’d had since then, all she’d known for so long, was rage, and hatred, and revenge, and once that was gone what was left? Who was she now, now that it was all gone? She had no memory, no family, nothing of who she was before. Without it, she had nothing. Nothing but her fear.

After she killed him, moments later his guards had stormed into the room, too late to save their boss. She’d managed to talk them down before they opened fire on her. They’d agreed to meet her in the lobby. Alone again, the weight of all that had just happened finally collapsed on her, the horror of what she’d just done, the shame of who she’d done it with, the thrill of cheating Death yet again, five men to one, each armed to the teeth and her only packing one tacky gun stolen from a dead man. It was a miracle she’d survived that night. It was a miracle she’d survived so long. She’d almost collapsed, stumbled into the bathroom on shaky legs, sagged against the sink. She’d thrown up, she remembered, thrown up all she had in her stomach, tears spilling down her cheeks, the acid burning her throat, stomach heaving, limbs shaking. And when she stood back up, when she’d looked at herself in the mirror, she’d felt sickened enough to do it again.

His blood had been on her face, her chest, her hands. His fingertips had bruised her skin. Skin stained red from his lips, his tongue, his teeth. And those had only been the marks she could see. He’d touched her everywhere. He’d touched every part of her, left his mark on her as surely as he’d left a bullet in her head.

She’d driven her fist into the mirror, watched herself shatter. She still had a scar on her knuckles, where the glass had cut into her skin.

How could she let a dead man hold so much power of her? He was gone, buried, a pile of bones in the dirt, and unlike her he wouldn’t be crawling out anytime soon. She’d survived being shot in the head, crawled from her own shallow grave, faced countless enemies out here in the Mojave, man and beast alike. She’d cheated Death more times than she could count. But she knew that wasn’t what mattered, not really.

If it had just been murder, simple cold-blooded murder, no strings attached, she knew she wouldn’t be feeling this way still. It was what she’d done with him that was weighing down on her, what she’d been carrying with her ever since, what it might mean. She’d been frightened of how easily she’d lost herself, how easy it had been to play along with his little game, how easy it was to pull the trigger, no longer under the threat of death. But she’d lost her memory. She had no idea who she used to be, who she was beyond a few months ago. And she’d been driven by revenge for so long, she didn’t know what to do with herself now, who she was without it. How could she know that wasn’t who she really was, and this whole time she’d just been pretending?

*

Though they’d started the morning off on the Strip, and they passed through several towns during the day, they ended up setting up camp that evening out in the desert. Despite its many dangers, Carmen preferred it like this, falling asleep under the stars. Her first memory, after the dirt and the panic and the fear, had been opening her eyes to a night sky, the air on her face, the billions of stars above. The discomfort of the hard ground beneath her when she laid her head to rest, the faint crackling of the smouldering cinders of the campfire, the cold night air around her, it all reminded her she was still alive. She wasn’t dead yet, no matter how many times He tried.

Sure, she supposed she was testing Him still, making a gamble with all the dangers the desert could throw at her. The Mojave was wild, dangerous, and chaotic, but that was a comfort still. At least it could be relied upon to be those things. It didn’t play nice until it got what it wanted from you, never hesitated to show its true colours.

They built a campfire between a scattering of large stones, used them as makeshift chairs while Raul cooked their dinner. Pinto bean and brahmin chilli with fried potatoes, washed down with a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla each. Carmen watched his hands while he cooked, watched him slice beef and peppers and add them to the pot, watched him stir the mixture with a wooden spoon. While the chilli simmered in the pot, he got to work frying up the potatoes, and she got to work setting up the tent.

The chilli was good, exactly what she needed after the long day they’d had. Raul made a great chilli. They ate in silence, side by side.

Sometimes, when they were seated around a campfire together like this, when he was telling her a story, when they ended up settling down to rest at night side by side, she would take his hands in hers, study them closely for however long, the permanent oil stains on his fingers, the scars on his knuckles, the bits of dust and grime beneath his nails. She would wonder at every mark and scar, or at least as many as she could see around his mottled skin.

She did so now, taking his hand in hers yet again. He didn’t pull away, didn’t seem bothered at all. He peered at her over his drink, set the bottle down to watch her amusedly. She held him by his fingers, ran her finger over his knuckles, down the rivers of veins, over each and every scar. She wondered how many he’d accumulated over the years, which had long since faded and which remained, what he’d look like if his skin still looked like hers. Sometimes she wondered how he must’ve looked before the war, full head of hair, skin intact, not a mark on him, but honestly she couldn’t imagine him any other way. Well, maybe a few marks. It was impossible to imagine he wouldn’t have gotten himself into trouble back then.

She had more than a few scars herself, some recent, some however old. She didn’t know all the stories behind them, but Raul had probably forgotten more than a few of his too.

Raul put the fire out before it got too dark, kicking sand over the smoking kindling. He treaded over to the tent to rummage through his pack, came back and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. The day had been hot, as most days out in the Mojave were, but once the sun vanished over the horizon it would get very cold very quickly, and he suspected they would be up for a while yet.

He sat back down beside her and they watched the sun set completely, that great ball of orange dipping below the horizon. She said a silent prayer in her mind, to whoever might be up there watching over her, to St Maria for sparing her that day, to Death for sparing her every day since. Beside her, Raul did the same.

She tugged her blanket around her as the first chills of night began to creep through. Raul reached into his pack, withdrew a half empty bottle of whiskey. She almost laughed.

He opened it up, took a long swig before handing it over to her. He waited until she’d taken a sip before speaking.

“So, uh…” Raul cleared his throat. “Boss, about last night-“ His tone was light, casual, but still she stiffened beside him. She’d known eventually he would ask, had been waiting for it all day, but she still hadn’t prepared the right answer. She wasn’t even sure there was such a thing.

“What happened to you back there?” He asked. “You wanna talk about it?”

No, she didn’t, but she knew she should. He deserved an explanation, at least. She owed him that much.

She took another drink, unable to meet his eyes. She swallowed, the whiskey burning her throat, looked down at the bottle in her hand. He sat still beside her, waited patiently for her to respond.

She took a deep breath. “Last night,” she began, “that room we were in…” She paused, swallowed. “…I killed a man in cold blood on that bed.”

There it was. Was that it? She felt she should say more. But what else could she say? How could she describe how it felt to finally have Benny beneath her, after the weeks and weeks of hunting him down, forgoing food and sleep and what was left of her sanity all to chase his sorry ass halfway across the desert. How could she say that once she’d pulled the trigger, gunshots ringing in her ears, blood sprayed across her hands, that just for a moment, before the horror and the fear and the panic set in, she’d felt relief to the point of ecstasy. And how could she tell him, that after Benny first came against his chest, that she’d climbed back on top of him and worked him back inside of her. That she’d fucked him like her life depended on it. That he’d fucked her like it was the end of the world.

She drank, eyes squeezed shut. She almost couldn't meet his gaze. She forced herself to look at him.

Raul was nodding slowly, taking it all in. And then of all things he snorted. “Oh, is that all?” He sounded amused. She loved him, but the fury she felt then was indescribable, and when he saw her face he backtracked. “I mean, uh, um..." He coughed hastily, not meeting her gaze. "Uh, no offence, boss, but, uh… I thought that might be something you’d be fairly used to by now.”

Was that true? Would she ever? She shook her head. “No. No, this… this time was different. This was…” She didn’t want to say “special”, didn’t even want to relate the word to that smug son of a bitch, but what else was there?

It was true. She had killed before. They both had. Raiders and fiends and the occasional thug, not to mention the countless wild creatures out in the wasteland. It was pretty unavoidable out here, not if you wanted to survive. But that’s all it was, a means to survive. Killing Benny had been nothing but revenge. Blind, stupid revenge. And as similar as the two were in execution, it was one thing to kill out of the sake of survival, another thing entirely to murder someone in cold blood. And worst of all she’d liked it. She’d gotten a sick thrill from the feeling of him beneath her once she’d pulled the trigger, his body slumping and growing still, his last breath leaving his chest. She’d liked it. And she knew she would like it again.

She hadn’t needed to kill him, hadn’t needed to track him down all that way. She could’ve just let him go, moved on with her life. Maybe if she had she’d really be happy, happier than she thought she’d be once the deed was done. No, even if that were true, she could never have let him go. If she had, perhaps she’d still be hunting him now. She would’ve hunted him down to the ends of the Earth if that’s what it took. She couldn’t let him get away with what he did. She couldn’t let him live after killing her.

She could say she was just getting even, an eye for eye, that he’d signed his death warrant the moment he pulled the trigger on her, but even then the circumstances were unmatched. He’d just been doing a job, nothing personal about it, but for her personal was all it was. And she’d taken the coward’s way out, killing him in his sleep. He’d at least had the decency to look her in the eye before he killed her. Even in death, he’d won. And his ghost still remained.

She knew there were ghosts. It wasn’t just some silly fancy. On the rare occasions she ended up back in Goodsprings, every time she found herself inexplicably drawn back up to that old cemetery, back to her own shallow grave. At night, if she were to press her ear to the ground and listen hard, she could hear them, the dead, whispering to each other. And as the night grew long, the whispers grew louder. Eventually she realized they were whispering to her. She’d cheated Death, crawling from her own shallow grave. They wanted her back, to lie still and let the earth cover her again. They wanted to cheat Death as she had.

Raul watched her with something like curiosity. She was hunched over on her rock, her arms resting heavily on her thighs, bottle clutched in her hand like a vice. That faraway look in her eyes he’d noticed earlier that day, it was there again now. Her dark eyes glared off into the night, fixated on something only she could see. 

She noticed him watching, came back to herself, eyes fixating on him once again.

“Who was it?” He asked softly. “Why was he so different, do you think?”

She sighed. The question was just like any other he’d asked her – light, casual, no strings attached. She already knew he expected nothing from her, he’d let it slide without a second thought if she decided not to answer, but she realized she wanted to. She’d kept this all inside of her for so long, and it was killing her. If there was anyone she trusted enough to tell it all to, anyone at all, in this demented wasteland of betrayal and paranoia and fear, it was him.

“It was the man who killed me,” she said. Her voice sounded so unlike her own. Her eyes veered down to the bottle in her hand. “If it had been different, if it had been self-defence, maybe I could’ve let it go. But it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like any of those folks who turn to violence just to survive. He had me tied up, had time to give his little speech to me before he shot me in the head. And he stole something from me. I wanted it back.”

She reached into her jacket then, plucked the Platinum Chip from her inside pocket, held it in her hand. Raul’s eyes flickered down to it in interest, but he gave no sign that he knew what it really was, and why should he? For all he knew, it was just another fancy token, nothing more. Nothing worth stealing, but nothing worth getting shot in the head over.

“I hunted him for the weeks after I woke up,” she continued, turning the Chip over in her hand. It was cool to the touch, but it quickly warmed up within her fingertips. “I didn’t care about food, about sleep, none of that was important, not while he was still out there.” The words were coming out through clenched teeth now. “Not while the bastard was still alive.

“I managed to track him down to the Strip, but as it turned out tracking him was the easy part. I still had to get into the Strip once I found out he was hiding out in there. I didn’t have the caps. But once I did, once I got on the Strip, I found out he was holing up in the Tops, and that’s where I got him. He recognized me, he looked ready to bolt, but I managed to get him up to his room, and then I shot him in the head. In that room. On that bed.” She was starting to find it difficult to breathe, the first stirrings of panic rippling through her. “And I know…” she paused, gasped for breath around the lump in her throat. “I know, I just know, he’s still there. He was there in that bed, watching me, watching us together. His ghost still haunts me.”

She sniffed, stuck the damned thing back inside her jacket, took another swig from the now near-empty bottle of whiskey. Raul was completely silent beside her, his eyes fixated on her. Panic shot through her, seizing through her mind, pressing down on her chest like a stone, fear that Benny was still with her even now, miles and miles away from that room, from that godforsaken bed, complete and utter terror at how Raul might react to all this. She couldn’t stand to look him in the eye, for fear of what she might see there. What must he think of her now, now that he knew the truth?

He despised senseless violence, had made that very clear in the weeks she’d known him, only turned to it when it was necessary to survive. He was so much better than her, he deserved so much better than her. If this was too much for him, if he left her, ventured off alone into the desert, she wouldn’t blame him if he did, never, but still the thought was almost too much to bear. In this entire wretched wasteland, he was the only one she felt somewhat understood her, the only one she trusted. She’d be lost without him.

“I know I could’ve just let him go, but I couldn’t then. That wasn’t all he took, that stupid chip,” she rambled on, trying to come up with a suitable reason for it, convince him she was more than the things she'd done. She could barely breathe, gasping for air around the weight in her chest. There were tears filling her eyes. “He took my life, he took more than my life. He took my memory, my past, everything I used to be. I have no idea who I am, what I’m doing here, who I’m supposed to be, all because of him. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I couldn’t just let him live. He didn’t deserve to live after what he did to me.”

The words were coming out so fast. Her voice was hollow. She couldn't breathe. “I know, I know I’ve done a horrible thing, there’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do. I know I’m no better than anyone else. Please, I-“ She broke off, gasping for breath, tears spilling down her cheeks. She’d been about to beg, for his understanding, for his forgiveness, anything. She’d done this thing, this disgusting thing, and she had to live with it. And if she were alone, perhaps one day she would make peace with it. But what she would never make peace with was if Raul decided he detested her, if he left her forever, found someone better than she could ever be. If he did, she didn’t know how she could continue. Finding him up on that mountain was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He was her best friend. He was the best thing she had. 

She didn’t know what she expected from him then. She thought he would be upset with her, disappointed at the very least. She feared he would turn away from her, his hand would slip from hers, that he’d gather up his things and set off into the night, leaving her behind. But whatever she’d expected it certainly wasn’t what happened next. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close to him, held her against his chest. His head rested upon hers. She could feel his lips in her hair, murmuring to her, “Niña, niña.” She still couldn’t look at him, but the tender gesture was enough to make her break.

She was crying so hard. Her shoulders racked with sobs. She could barely see. She could barely breathe, heaving through heavy lungs. She was being too loud, they were still out in the open, why had she thought it was a good idea to set up camp out here? There were monsters everywhere, the wild beasts of the desert, the ghosts in her head. Let them come, she thought, just for a moment. Let them all come, let this torture end, let Death lay his hand upon her once again.

She clamped her hands over her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut, tried to choke back the sounds, the tears. Pain throbbed behind her eyelids. Her throat felt dryer than sand. Her head felt about to explode. And through it all he held her, even as she soaked his shirt through with her tears, even as she gripped his jacket hard enough to leave indents from her fingernails. even though she’d done this unspeakable thing. But he didn’t hate her, he didn’t think her despicable, didn’t think her past saving. He still cared for her, he must, otherwise he wouldn’t be holding her this way now. His hand wouldn’t be rubbing slow circles up and down her back. His lips wouldn’t be pressing gentle kisses to her tear-stained cheeks. The sense of relief she felt then was completely overwhelming, enough to send a fresh wave of tears pouring down her face. He still cared for her. He didn’t hate her. Despite it all, despite everything she’d done, he still thought her good.

He held her until the last few tears fell from her eyes, until her gasps subsided and she remembered how to breathe She’d been holding him so tightly, her fingers cramped when she unfurled them from his jacket. His beautiful jacket. She hoped she hadn’t ruined it. His arm was draped around her shoulders, still holding her gently against him. He was still kissing her, murmuring sweet things to her, telling her it would be alright. She closed her eyes, exhaled, relaxed against him, able to think clearly now that the panic had subsided. She should’ve known it would all be okay. He was so good to her. He wouldn’t just up and leave her like that, not while she cried, not if they could talk things through, not without saying goodbye.

“It’s alright, niña, it’s alright,” he murmured. His head rested upon hers, his hand grasped her shoulder. He seemed tense, all of a sudden. “I know how you feel. I know exactly you feel.”

He did? She lifted her head a little, eyebrows knit in curiosity. He hesitated a moment before continuing.

“I killed the men who killed my family,” he said. His voice sounded then like nothing she’d heard before. “The men who killed my sister.”

He said no more, but he didn’t need to. It was out there now, what he’d done, what they’d done, and it was here between them.

She pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, they were somewhere far away, another place, another time. As old as he was, right then he looked older than she’d ever seen him, something dangerous in the look of his eyes, the clenching of his jaw. He came back to himself after a moment, his eyes flitting back to hers. She put her hand on his cheek. His eyes drifted closed. His hand reached up to touch hers. They had a better understanding of each other now, an even stronger bond than they’d had moments ago. Perhaps Raul was more like her than she’d thought, even more so than Cass. And though what she had in common with Cass felt more like a painful reflection, with Raul she felt something like comfort. Knowing that he’d gone through similar circumstances, had acted in a similar way, that now he seemed whole and content, that now he was at peace with himself, it gave her hope that one day she’d achieve the same, however long it took.

They stayed like that for a while, the sky growing ever darker around them, the moon shining down on them from above. She reached down to grab the blanket from where it had fallen into the dust, draped it across her lap. She didn’t feel the cold as much now, this close to him. He was always so warm, almost seemed to emit heat, as much as he joked about emitting radiation. She tucked her head into his shoulder, her knee pressing against his.

“You know, I gotta say, boss,” he said after a moment. “I guess I’m a little relieved to hear all that.” He chuckled, but there was something a little self-conscious about it. “Back there, I thought you might be having, I don’t know, second thoughts about us…” he trailed off, seemingly embarrassed. She lifted her head to look at him and he backtracked, taking it the wrong way. “Not that I’d blame you or anything of, course, I-“

“Oh, no, no,” she cut him off, shaking her head in disagreement. This was exactly what she’d feared. How could she let him know she didn’t feel that way? “No, Raul.” She leaned in and she kissed him, holding him by either side of his face.

He was too surprised to kiss back, and all too soon it was over, but she hoped it was enough that he understood. She didn’t regret a thing, not when it came to him. She pulled away slowly, though she stayed close to him, her hands on his cheeks, eyes boring into his. “No, Raul,” she said again. Her voice was lower than before, her eyes dark with desire. “I wanted you just as much then as I do now.”

“Oh, querida.” And then he kissed her. He kissed her like it was the first time, without tequila to cloud their thoughts or a crowd of onlookers to gawk or a ghost to watch them from an empty bed. There was no one but the two of them now, nothing but her and him and the desert and the night sky above, his hands in her hair, hot whiskey breath in her mouth, heart pounding in her chest. His arms curled around her waist, pulling her even closer. She moaned softly, melting against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her breasts pressed against his chest and he groaned.

They broke apart for just a moment, panting heavily, before scrabbling back for each other, bringing their lips together once again. The blanket slipped from their shoulders, fell again to the dusty ground, but neither of the two cared enough to notice. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her completely into his lap. She moved to straddle him, hands on his shoulders, before crushing her lips back against his. She kissed him hungrily, desperately, like she was afraid he might disappear. He kissed her like she was air, like she was water, like he wouldn’t survive without her lips pressed to his. He held her like he never wanted to let her go. She hoped he never would. This, him, it was all she’d wanted for so long. She’d happily die in his arms if she could.

*

They remained that way for a while longer, Carmen straddling his lap, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his. Honestly though, after the conversation they’d just had, they weren’t really in the mood to do much more. And they were both quite tired from their day, walking the long stretches of road. They went to bed after a time. Raul took first watch, sitting by the door to the tent, gun resting in his lap. Carmen settled down on the ground beside him, blanket tucked around her, using her pack as a makeshift pillow. She fell asleep with his hand running idly through her hair, humming a gentle tune.

The next day was just like the last. Once again they were back out on the road, errands to run, people to see, long stretches of road to walk under the blazing sun. But they walked the road arm in arm, and hand in hand, until their fingers got too hot and sweaty to hold onto each other for much longer.

That night they returned to Novac, walked up to her hotel room hand in hand. He made them dinner, and they stayed up for a while afterwards, talking and sitting cross legged on the bed, passing a bottle of rum back and forth, just like the night they’d first met. They kissed, and they touched, slowly, tenderly. There was no need to rush, nothing to fear in here, nothing to fight, nothing to hide from. It was just her and him, just the two of them together, his lips on hers, his arms around her, her skin pressed to his.

She pulled away enough to tug off her shirt, and then she wrapped her arms around him, drawing herself closer to him. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest. She hooked her leg around his hip, ground lazily against him, felt his heat through his jeans. He ran his hands up and down her back, beneath her jacket. They undressed each other slowly, she took the time to run her hands over his skin once it was revealed to her. She didn’t have to worry about cutting herself - he’d already rid himself of all his weapons while their dinner cooked on the stovetop. She giggled past his lips, which turned into a gasp when his hand slipped between her thighs.

She sighed, falling back against the bed. A small sound escaped her lips when he slipped his fingers inside of her. His fingers were rough, mottled skin just like the rest of him, and yet they moved inside of her like silk, like liquid. All the times she’d touched herself thinking about him, the few ghouls she’d been with since she met him, none of it could compare to how it felt for real, how he felt, his fingers deep within her, doing things to her she’d only dreamed about. 

He moved to position himself over her, pressed against her side, his leg sliding in between hers. He brought a hand up to touch her cheek, his thumb on the corner of her mouth, little gasps and sounds tumbling from her lips. His fingers crooked inside of her, making her gasp and quiver beneath him. His beautiful eyes bore into hers. She put her hand over his.

She reached down between them to touch him, slipping her hand into his jeans. He was only half-hard under her hand, but hot, as hot as she remembered. She curled her hand around him, squeezed him gently, and then hard. His head fell into her shoulder, hot breath against her skin. His fingers were still inside of her.

She took her time, touching him, focusing on his face, his reactions to her touch. She wanted to know which parts were extra sensitive, the manner in which she touched him and where, what made his body shake against her, what made gasp and groan against her neck, what made him curse in Spanish, sink his teeth into her skin as he came. She squeezed her eyes shut at that, tremors running through her for more reasons then one, but she managed to set aside her fears, if only for him. She could do it for him. She wanted to know all of him, learn him all by heart.

By the next morning, she’d come rather close. They spent most of the night like that in the bed, kissing and touching each other, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms sometime before dawn. The night had been cold, as most nights in the Mojave were, even in their room, but she was warm next to him, wrapped up in his arms beneath the blanket, her head on his chest, his lips in her hair. He was like a furnace, warming her up from the inside out.

That night, or that morning, she should say, tucked into his arms, she slept peacefully, for the first time in… she couldn’t remember how long ago it had been. Since she’d woken up for the first time. She hadn’t known peace one night since then. Not until now.

The day ahead of them was just like the last, as was the next day, and the day after that. Between running errands across the Mojave, while walking the long stretches of road, she still found herself gazing off past the horizon, wondering, at her past, who she might’ve been, who she was now. She still didn’t now. At night, she still lied awake for hours willing her body to sleep, or she slept tormented by nightmares of choking on dust and sand. But on the road she could slip her hand into his, hear his jokes and his stories. And at night she could lie wrapped up in his arms, his hand running idly through her hair, until at last, she finally slept.

She still wasn’t complete, far from it, but she felt a little closer to it now, with Raul by her side. He was more like her than she’d first thought. He knew what it was like to live consumed by revenge, like her he’d lost his past, had to form a new life for himself, a new identity. Like her he’d cheated Death, surviving a nuclear apocalypse, surviving every day since. And while that was a little scary, it was also a comfort, to know she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t have to endure her sorrows alone.

She wondered if he might feel the same about her. She hoped so. He was her best friend, the one man she trusted most out here, where trust was more valuable than star-stamped bottle caps. She hoped she could be the same to him.

She believed she could. He’d never given her what she couldn’t offer in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea how to finish this story so I just ended it. Hope you all liked it! It was very fun to write.
> 
> The summary sucks but at least it’s better than my first try, which made this story sound like a cheap porno.
> 
> I took some liberties with the game’s story, obviously, and with the Courier’s relationship to the companion characters. I feel it all makes enough sense, but if any of you have any questions, feel free to ask!
> 
> The He Carmen refers to is Death, not God. While people in the Fallout verse say things like “oh my God” and such, I think most if not all religions would’ve been lost during the war. They’d have the chance to survive through records and books, and through Ghouls and Vaults, but of course nearly all the Vaults went down the shitter, and I can imagine even if there are those who practice the old world religions, they wouldn’t be as widespread as they are in our world.


End file.
